The Pale Afterimage

The day I moved into my late uncle’s house in the dust-veiled town of Morrow, I found a box of his old photographs. They were all of the same woman, her face clouded by grain, always staring at something just off-frame. My uncle had been a recluse; the neighbors whispered he’d gone mad after his wife died. I never believed them until I saw the portrait in the upstairs hallway.

The portrait was of a woman in a pale dress, her expression serene but for her eyes, which were the color of burnt umber. I felt a chill when I looked at it, as if the air around me grew a degree colder. That night, I woke to the sound of soft breathing from the hallway. I crept to the door and peered through the crack. The portrait was gone, and in its place was a smudge on the wall, like a shadow smeared by a thumb. I chalked it up to exhaustion and went back to bed.

A week later, I noticed the reflection in my bathroom mirror lagged a half-second behind me. It was subtle at first, a flicker, but it grew worse each day. I tried to ignore it, but one evening, I stared at the mirror, and my reflection smiled. I had not smiled. I stumbled back, and the reflection tilted its head, as if amused. That night, I heard the breathing again, this time louder, and I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. I whirled around, but no one was there. The mirror in the hallway showed a figure behind me, a woman in a pale dress, her face a blur.

The next morning, I noticed my body was wrong. My fingers were a shade too pale, my shadow pointed the wrong way when I walked under the noon sun. I went to see a doctor, but he said I was healthy, though he kept glancing at my pupils as if he saw something in them. He gave me sleeping pills, but they only made the dreams worse. I saw the woman, her face still a blur, standing over a crib. She was singing a lullaby that I somehow knew, a melody that made my skin crawl. In the dream, she turned to me, and I saw her face. It was mine, but older, sagging with a century of sorrow.

I sought help from a local priest, who intoned prayers and sprinkled holy water, but as he did, the water hissed on my skin and left red welts. He recoiled and whispered, ‘You carry a sickness of the soul.’ He refused to see me again. Desperate, I began to research my uncle’s life. I found a diary in the attic, hidden beneath a loose floorboard. The last entry read: ‘She comes back each time I see my reflection. I must not look again.’ I slammed the diary shut, but I had already seen the date: one hundred years before my birth.

The final night, I decided to leave. I packed my bags and rushed to the front door, but the handle was cold as ice, and the lock would not turn. I heard the breathing behind me, and I knew she was there. I turned around slowly. The woman from the portrait stood at the end of the hall, her face now clear. It was me, but withered, as if she had been trapped in the mirror of time for an age. She opened her mouth, and a sound came out that was not a whisper, not a scream, but a sigh that tasted of dust. Then she reached out, and her fingers passed through my chest like smoke, and I felt my age double in a heartbeat.

I do not know how long I lay on the floor. When I finally rose, the house was bright with dawn. The portrait was back on the wall, but now it showed a man, his face a blur. It took me a moment to realize it was me. I staggered to the bathroom to wash my face, and in the mirror, I saw my reflection. It was healthy, younger, with my old youthful eyes. But as I watched, it smiled, and whispered, ‘You are free now.’ Then it turned and walked away, leaving me staring at an empty mirror.

Now, I sit in my uncle’s chair, watching the dust motes dance in the light. I have not looked in a mirror since. The woman is gone, but I feel a hollow space in my chest, where something cold remains. I have started to see her in the corner of my eye, just at the edge of vision, always watching. And I know, in a week, or a month, or a year, she will come back for me, and I will be the one waiting in the mirror, hungry for a life to take.